


Messmeric

by Addleton



Series: Promptings [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blackmail, Blood and Gore, Locington - Freeform, M/M, Manipulation, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7738150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Addleton/pseuds/Addleton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU where Felix is a real-life gore painter and Locus is the reluctant accomplice, Wash is the the perfect subject for Felix’s latest series of paintings... and also Locus’ boyfriend.</p><p>Things are bound to get messy.</p><p>Another prompt from the 3rd RvB Angst War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heart Worm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [immortalbears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalbears/gifts).



> immortalbears prompted "felix is a painter who paints real life gore objects, manipulates locus into finding him a victim. locus gets wash, how you want to end that is up to you"
> 
> This is going to get dark.
> 
> Let me know if you need something tagged.

It’s a slow night. The club is quiet. The DJ plays slow dances for the few couples on the floor.

Locus sits at the bar, one eye on his drink, the other on the exits. Old habits die hard.

He takes a sip of his rum and coke. The fizz hides the bite of the alcohol. The sugar smooths the burn. He growls out a sigh and rests the empty glass on the bartop, disgruntled.

The alcohol is no help at all.

The bartender refills his glass as a bottle-blond wanders over from a nearby booth. The booth remains occupied by an older man, a regular, who watches the blond like a mother bear.

“Mind if I sit here?” the blond asks, pointing to the seat next to Locus.

Locus shrugs. Takes a sip of his drink. His eyes move between the exits, his drink, the booth, the blond.

The blond sits down. Orders a drink. Watches Locus out of the corner of his eye.

“So…” the blond begins after his drink arrives: a bourbon over ice. He takes a sip. “You got a name, stranger?”

Locus raises an eyebrow.

“Well—” The blond raises his own eyebrow in imitation. “—that’s a very interesting name.”

Locus looks at the blond.

The blond huffs, unintimidated. He frowns. “You’re not a very talkative guy, are you.”

“No.”

The blond looks at Locus, eyes exaggeratedly wide, glass held to his heart with both hands. “He speaks!”

Locus snorts and hides his smile behind the rim of his glass. The alcohol is getting to him.

“Rarely,” he replies. Takes a sip.

The blond smiles at Locus, glancing sidelong with deeply-hooded eyes. The lighting of the bar emphasizes the fold at the inside corners. The blond takes another sip of his drink, tongue darting out between full lips to catch a drop escaping the corner of his mouth.

Locus knows it was deliberate.

He doesn’t care.

(He should.)

The discontent eats away at his discipline, burrowing deep within his chest like a bloodworm through sediment.

“I haven't seen you here before,” he says.

The blond chuckles, the bright sound a counterpoint to the shadows all around. “I just moved into the area. I take it you come here often?”

“Sometimes.” Locus inclines his head towards the booth. The man seated there is still watching, hands white-knuckled around his glass. His eyes meet Locus’, and he scowls but does not look away.

Locus does.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

The blond laughs again, light and airy. “Nope. He's a family friend. Showing me around the area.”

“By bringing you to a gay club.”

The blond smirks, the reflected lights of the dance floor lending his eyes a sinister glow. “It isn't the first thing he's shown me about the gay lifestyle, if you catch my drift.” He pivots in his seat and leans on the counter, knee just shy of touching Locus’ own. “What about you? Got a boyfriend?”

Locus shifts.

Their knees touch.

“No.”

Their ankles link.

“Looking for one?”

Locus looks at the blond—at the heart-shaped face and flat-bridged nose, the sunspots sprinkled over high cheekbones, the eyes that never waver beneath his own dark gaze—and is intrigued.

But no less cautious.

“Maybe,” he says and takes a final sip.

Old habits die hard.

The blond huffs and pulls away. He stands and turns back to the booth. Notices Locus watching his every move. Gives Locus another look.

“Maybe I am too,” he says, voice dark with promise. “I'll see you around.” He raises his eyebrow and returns to his friend.

Locus pays for his drinks. Tips. Leaves.

The worm in his chest grinds glass to sand.


	2. Crimson

A spray of anemone splays on the floor, poppies lounge and linger, red on black, reddened black.

Felix laughs, takes pride in the arrangement.

Dark tendrils weave between the petals, slanted eyes and parted lips, iridescent whites and silverskin, like weeds, diseased and desperate, clinging to the red key driving life, drinking it away.

Felix drinks deeply too.

He drinks the red, the black, the pale, until all that remains is exhausted brown that crumbles beneath his fingertips and sickly yellow that reeks of ancient grume.

Felix rubs a thumb over stained petals, long cold and dried and flattened: a failed attempt to preserve the transient: another mistimed photograph.

He grows bored. He has learned all he can from this failure.

He craves a new subject.


	3. Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heat and partners

The bathroom tiles are covered in grime. The blond—Washington—doesn’t seem to mind. He leans against the filthy wall, eyes closed, head tilted back, the waxy light through the barred window crisscrossing his face with shadow.

“My place or yours?” he murmurs. His lips are swollen from kissing. His tongue slides out to soothe them.

Locus slows the roaming of his hands, draws circles on skin with his thumbs. Washington shudders beneath his touch.

Locus leans down and whispers, “Do you have a preference?”

“No.” Washington’s breath is hot against Locus’ ear. The blond nibbles the lobe.

“Mine,” Locus decides, slowly pulling away. “It’s close.”

Washington grins, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Lead the way.”

Locus does, Washington nestled against him the entire trip from club to apartment.

The door has barely shut when Washington resumes kissing Locus, all gentle lips and insistent tongue, pushing him down the hall. The only light in the apartment is what leaks through the blinds.

Locus almost trips over his shoes.

He growls, grabs Washington’s thighs, and lifts the smaller man with ease.

Washington squeaks and pulls away from the kiss. He gains his balance and wraps his legs around Locus’ waist, winding his hands into Locus’ hair, drawing them into another kiss as Washington grinds his hips into Locus’ belly, breath hitching, fingers tangling.

Locus navigates them safely to his bed and eases Washington down.

“How do you want to do this?”

“I don’t like to bottom.”

“Neither do I.”

Washington groans. He falls back onto the mattress, the light through the blinds searing slashes across his torso. “We should’ve figured this out before we started.”

“We’ll figure it out now.”

“And quickly because, I swear, Locus, if you blue ball me, I will never forgive you.” Washington’s eyes gleam despite being cast in shadow. The force of his glare belies the need in his voice.

Locus has seen those eyes before. Soldier’s eyes.

They steal his breath away.

“You started it,” Locus points out and breaks eye contact by stripping off his shirt.

“You kept it going.” Washington’s eyes rake over Locus’ body, and he sits up to get a better view in the dim light. “Hands?”

Locus nods. He pulls open the nightstand drawer and tosses Washington a condom and lube. “Together?”

Washington shrugs his shirt off and tosses it to the floor. “Sounds fair.” He adds his pants to the growing pile of mingled clothing.

A moment later, both men are staring at each other, naked except for the condoms.

“So...” Washington trails off, his expression deadpan. “Are you just going to stand there all night, or should I come over?”

The question breaks the awkwardness, and Locus glides back to the bed, taking a seat next to the blond. He leans back, the springs of the mattress a firm pressure against the heels of his palms, and regards Washington. “Sitting or lying down?”

“Considering that there's a bed right here...”

Locus huffs and shifts to the other side of the bed. “Lying down, then,” he says, stretching out on his side so that he still faces Washington.

Washington mirrors Locus’ position, coming to a rest close enough that their foreheads barely touch. The blond looks intently into Locus' eyes, searching for something.

Washington seems to find it, his eyes growing dark again with desire. “Well?” he asked, voice a breathy growl Locus thought only existed in porn. “Are we going to do it or not?”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_. Are you?”

Locus wraps his hand around Washington’s shaft and gently squeezes. “Yes,” he breathes, and Washington’s hand wraps around Locus.

They don’t talk much after that.

* * *

“I was expecting it to be rougher,” Washington says when Locus returns from the shower wearing only pajama pants.

“Did you want it to be rough?”

Washington looks at the lines of cut light on the wall. “It would’ve made things simpler.”

“We can keep things simple.”

“No… it’s too late for that.” Washington slips off the bed with a sigh and stretches. “Okay if I use your shower?”

“I put towels on the vanity for you.”

Washington looks at Locus, surprise quickly shifting to something more guarded, almost calculating. “Thanks,” he says, tone too level to be truly nonchalant, brushing past Locus on the way out the door.

Locus watches as Washington slips from slatted light to enclosed dimness, his hair shifting from streetlight bronze to shadow silver.

Then the door shuts and the water starts running, and Locus heads to the kitchen to make tea. As the kettle heats to a boil, he sets two cups out on the counter and drops a bag of Darjeeling in each.

“So who’s the new boytoy and when do I get my turn with him?”

Locus almost crushes the box of tea he's still holding. “Felix...” he warns, turning to look into the living room where the other man lounges on the couch.

“I'm just saying, it's been a while since you've found someone worth your while, and I'm suffering from a similar lack of quality subjects over here.”

Locus puts the box safely down on the counter as he replies, “Then go out and find one.”

Felix sits up, shaking his head and tsking all the while. “Now, now, Locus. You know that's not how things work. We're _partners_ , after all, and partners share _everything_ , you know.”

The shower continues running and the kettle begins bubbling.

Felix gets up from the couch and saunters over to the breakfast bar, propping his elbows on the last thing between him and Locus. “Partners share the good and the bad,” he continues in his carefully reasonable voice, “and I would hate to have something... unfortunate happen to our partnership.”

Locus sighs and hopes that Washington enjoys long showers. “What do you want, Felix?”

Felix smiles. “You know what I want, Locus. I want what's best for this partnership, and right now, that means you keeping up your end of our mutually-beneficial arrangement. So tell me, Locus, when are you going to find _me_ another special someone?”

The shower stops.

“ _Later_ ,” Locus hisses, tilting his head towards the door.

Felix rolls his eyes. “Ugh. _Fine_. But, when you get bored of _him_ , I call dibs.”

Felix doesn't quite slam the door behind him, but he is hardly gentle with it. The sound pounds at Locus' ears and settles behind his eyes like lead in his sinuses.

Locus rubs the bridge of his nose. Sighs. Feels more than hears Washington pad out of the bathroom and into the living area.

“Who was that?” the blond asks, still toweling off his hair. “A friend?”

“Felix, and no.”

“Then why does he have the key to your apartment?”

“He doesn't.”

The towel almost slips through Washington's fingers. “Have you tried changing the locks on your door?”

“Yes.”

Washington twists his fingers into the towel and looks down to the side. “You should go to the police,” he says quietly.

Locus snorts. “They won't help.”

Washington looks up at that. His tone is incredulous when he asks, “Why not?”

Locus slumps against the counter. “They think I murdered my previous boyfriend.”

Washington bites his lip, steeling himself before asking, “Did you?”

Locus looks the man in the eyes and replies, “No.”

Washington watches Locus, his expression unreadable. His face hardens, and he commands, “But.”

Locus takes a deep breath through his nose and closes his eyes before replying, “I know who did.”

“Then why—?”

Locus' fist hits the edge of the counter hard enough to bruise, and Locus opens his eyes quickly enough to see Washington jump at the violence of it. “Because they won't believe me!” he snarls, barely remembering to keep his voice down; the last thing he needed to deal with right now was a noise complaint from the neighbors.

Locus takes another deep breath through his nose and relaxes his hands before explaining, “There’s no evidence left that points to him. He made sure of _that_. And if I take matters into my own hands, I'll become the murderer they believe me to be.”

Washington's expression softens, his brow wrinkling, mouth pulling down at the corners. He looks at Locus with an expression too close to pity.

Locus turns away.

He hears Washington pad up behind him, feels Washington's arms wind loosely around his waist, warm breath on his spine where Washington has pressed his face into Locus’ back.

“If you ever need to talk about it, I'll listen.”

The kettle screams.

“I thought you wanted to keep this simple.”

The blond chuffs, his breath hot on Locus’ skin. “Like I said, it’s too late for that.”

Locus huffs in reply and Washington nuzzles his shoulder blade.

“Who prepares towels and makes tea for a one-night stand?” Washington asks, and Locus can feel the smaller man's smile stretch the skin on his back.

Locus pulls away. He turns off the stove, pours water into the waiting cups, and hands one to Washington.

Washington closes his eyes and inhales the steam. He leans against a counter and looks at Locus, the vapor from the cup a misty veil.

“So tell me, Locus, are you looking for a boyfriend?”

“No.”

Washington’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “No?”

Locus leans against the counter next to Washington. “I already see one.”

Washington smiles and sips his tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut was not part of the original plan. It just happened as I was writing this.
> 
> My sister keeps teasing me about how red my face got while writing it. And I didn't even go all the way.
> 
> I have never written smut before.
> 
> Help.


	4. Problems

Partners.

A relationship formed on assumptions and agreements, a twisted tangle of thorns kept at bay with the careful pruning of communication, briars poised to pierce the weaknesses you’ve each let slip in forming the partnership.

Felix can feel the prickling of the brambles beneath his skin, the slightest shiver away from shredding his flesh, his patience about to precede it.

His partner’s self-deception had always been an asset before.

Felix throws his hands up in the air, cursing the ease with which this Washington had wormed his way into Locus’ loyalty. “He’s got an _angle_ , Locus,” Felix snaps, the itch burrowing into his bones feeding his growing impatience. He banks his temper a with a rope of remembered pain and tries to convey the danger the two of them now find themselves in. “I don’t know what it is, but he has one, and it’s bad news.”

“Not everyone has an angle, Felix.”

It’s _infuriating_ how dispassionately Locus states his claim, as if commenting that the weather tomorrow will be the same as yesterday’s. It appears only Felix is able to see the storms brewing on the horizon.

“Well _he does_ ,” Felix spits, determined to drag his partner out of the oncoming disaster before the lightning strikes its fatal judgement.

And Locus?

Locus snorts. Were it anyone else, the short exhalation might have been more aptly described as a _scoff_ , but Locus was too straightforward and simple-minded for such affectations; it was one of the aspects Felix appreciated in his partner, even as it equally infuriated, and oh, how it raised the tide of his blood into a proper fury.

“Go ahead!” Felix snaps. “ _Don’t_ believe me! Just don’t expect me to be sympathetic when the game plays out and you’ve wound up losing.”

“He isn’t like that.”

Felix scoffs. “Yeah, yeah. Just keep telling yourself that. I still have dibs after you break up.”

“We won’t.”

Felix laughs at the implacable certainty in his partner’s voice. “We’ll see about that.”

“Felix—”

Felix slams the door in Locus’ face and seethes all the way back to his apartment.

He broods at his computer, Washington’s face pulled up on his screen, a graduation photo, a news article about a successful sex trafficking sting, a paused clip of an awards ceremony for the Special Agents responsible for taking down the corrupt official heading it.

Felix’s sole consolation laid in how it had taken one one reverse image search to unearth Washington’s identity and occupation.

But as sloppy as Agent Washington was, he had managed to worm his way through the tangle and burrow into Locus’ heart. He was a pest, a parasite, and he had to be removed, even if Locus disagreed.

His partner would thank him later.

Felix was doing this for _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha bet you thought I'd forgotten about this story.
> 
> Nope.
> 
> Felix is just a pain to write _even though his parts are so short whyyyyy_.


End file.
